Puncture Marks
by GlitterGhost
Summary: Secrets about Eugene's past that the movie never hinted at
1. Default Chapter

Eugene paused, the fingertip sachet in his hand, and  
  
looked towards the stairwell with a scowl of  
  
perplexity marking his face.  
  
There it was again, more distinct now: a faint  
  
scraping, like metal on wood. It sounded as if someone  
  
was fiddling with the lock of the door upstairs.  
  
Jerome placed the sachet and blood-filled syringe on  
  
the work-bench and repositioned his wheelchair to try  
  
and get a clearer look at the upper story. He heard a  
  
faint click, and the sound of the traffic outside was  
  
magnified for a brief moment; then the door swung shut  
  
without a sound.  
  
Eugene fretted. He was painfully aware of his helpless  
  
crippled state, plus the fact that he and Jerome had  
  
never thought to provide their home with any kind of  
  
weapon. After all, the threat was to their livelihood,  
  
not their lives. It was stupid, he now realized, that  
  
it had never occured to him that a cripple left alone  
  
all day could still be at risk, even if no-one did  
  
know his real name.  
  
He cleared his throat. "Jerome!" he called. "Is that  
  
you?"  
  
There was no answer; of course not. If Jerome had, for  
  
some inexplicable reason, had to return in the middle  
  
of a workday and had locked himself out, he would have  
  
knocked at the ground-level back door, where Eugene  
  
could have let him in, not picked the lock at the  
  
front. Or even if he had, he would have announced  
  
himself as he entered so that Eugene wouldn't have  
  
been alarmed. Eugene craned his neck trying to see  
  
upstairs, wondering if a blood-filled syringe could  
  
still be used as a weapon in a time when most diseases  
  
could be removed as easily as an inflamed appendix.  
  
Then a figure appeared at the top of the stairs.  
  
Eugene gaped, and his color went from pale with fear  
  
to pale with anger. "You!"  
  
The figure, a handsome, smartly-dressed man of  
  
approximately Eugene's age, smiled and started down  
  
the stairs.  
  
"You bastard!" Eugene snapped. "Don't come in here!  
  
You shouldn't even have this address."  
  
The man, who had remained smiling all throught  
  
Eugene's tirade, now laughed out loud. He reached the  
  
last step and halted before the cripple's chair,  
  
grinning broadly. "Now really, lover," he admonished  
  
in a British accent, "is that any way to greet your  
  
favorite ex?"  
  
Eugene only glared at his visitor's face, his anger  
  
growing at the spiteful enjoyment evinced in his  
  
exulting look. "What the fuck are you doing here,  
  
Damien?" he spat. "You were supposed to stay away from  
  
us till after take-off. I wouldn't've said yes if I'd  
  
known you'd be barging in when you were least welcome.  
  
And you should have known you're not welcome."  
  
Damien made a show of looking hurt. "Now really,  
  
Eugene," - and there was a subtle but distinct  
  
emphasis he gave to the name that made its owner bare  
  
his teeth - "this much hostility just isn't necessary.  
  
Aren't you going to be living with us again soon? And  
  
I just wouldn't feel right if I didn't stop by to see  
  
how you were doing after all this time." Eugene  
  
snorted. Damien studied him narrowly. "You haven't  
  
been entertaining doubts, have you?" he asked in a  
  
tone of gentle menace. "Not letting this Invalid  
  
pretty-boy worm his way into that tender little heart  
  
of yours, are you?"  
  
Eugene returned his stare levelly, pretending not to  
  
notice the sneering inflection on the word "Invalid".  
  
"Don't worry about me, Damien," he said. "I'm not  
  
giving up a second chance for the sake of some common  
  
vagrant."  
  
"I hope not. But if I'm suspicious, you can't really  
  
blame me."  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
"Well, think about it, darling. After your *accident*  
  
you disappear, knowing very well you'd be missed by us  
  
all. When Tania finally tracks you down you seem  
  
anything but pleased to see such and old friend. You  
  
refuse point-blank to even see me. And when Tania  
  
tells you our old hideaway can't last us much longer,  
  
it takes her hours to persuade you to give us shelter  
  
when you know what the consequences would be for us.  
  
To top it all off, you first insist that we give this  
  
god-child time to get off the bloody planet before you  
  
even let us through the door, and here I find you hard  
  
at work preparing samples for him as if you were  
  
planning to supply him for life! What am I supposed to  
  
think?"  
  
"Use your head, Damien. If something was to happen to  
  
the Invalid, hoovers would be all over this place. I'd  
  
go to jail for fraud and you'd be no better off. And  
  
if I leave him with a lifetime of samples, he won't  
  
get worried about me breaking the deal and cause  
  
problems, even if I tell him he has to move. He'd know  
  
it would be easier to keep up his pretence without  
  
some anonymous lodger to raise neighbors' suspicions."  
  
  
  
Damien sneered as if disappointed that Eugene's  
  
arguments could not be logically disputed. He turned  
  
his attention to the work table, carelessly running  
  
his hand over a plastic-covered tray of dead skin  
  
flakes.  
  
"Don't touch that," Eugene warned, "you'll contaminate  
  
the sample."  
  
Damien withdrew his hand. "Accent, darling. You're  
  
Cockney's showing."  
  
"So's your Yorkshire."  
  
Damien raised his eyebrows, surprised at Eugene's  
  
spirit. He picked up the blood-filled syringe Eugene  
  
had left on the table and his eyes misted, the  
  
spiteful mocking temporarily banished. "When I think  
  
of the low-life all this is being wasted on ..." He  
  
raise the syringe to his open mouth and depressed the  
  
plunger.  
  
The sound of the thin red stream splashing against the  
  
intruder's soft palate seemed to fill the empty house.  
  
Eugene swallowed bile and gripped his wheelchair's  
  
arms until his knuckles were white. Lowering the empty  
  
syringe, a peculiar and horrible gratification on his  
  
face, Damien noticed Eugene's look and became  
  
agressive. "What, do you resent it?" He dropped the  
  
syringe and quickly moved to stand over the cripple,  
  
pulling his shirt collar open to expose his throat.  
  
"Then take it back," he cried. "There hasn't been  
  
anyone since you. Look, three sets of puncture marks,  
  
the ones you gave me. Don't try to tell me you've  
  
forgotten them! Do you think it's just coincidence  
  
that I've never let anyone else take from me like  
  
that?"  
  
Eugene averted his eyes. Every spark of sanity fired  
  
him to resist, but thirst like he had never known was  
  
overwhelming him. The struggle lasted for many  
  
heartbeats; then he remembered that refusing Damien  
  
now would only reawake his suspicions. Giving in, he  
  
raised his head and sank into the proffered throat  
  
inch-long fangs that had sprouted over his canines the  
  
moment the blood-lust was stirred.  
  
All motion ceased; the warm flood coursed down  
  
Eugene's throat and his eyes rolled unconsciously  
  
back. Damien held his awkward pose, one hand dropping  
  
to cradle the back of Eugene's head. His throat  
  
emitted a low croon that Eugene felt as well as heard.  
  
Finally he stood, moving out of Eugene's reach as  
  
tenderly as a mother disengaging her breast from her  
  
baby's mouth. "I've missed you, Jerome," he whispered.  
  
  
  
Eugene licked his lips, struggling to regather. When  
  
he spoke, his tone was softened but still resentful.  
  
"You'd better leave."  
  
But Damien stepped back, his eyes dancing again with  
  
malicious glee. "But darling, you know I can only  
  
travel abroad in daylight hours between twelve and one  
  
and it's ten to now. Where could I go?"  
  
Eugene gaped. "But - oh, no you don't! Not here, I  
  
won't allow it!"  
  
Damien laughed and headed for the basement door. "What  
  
will you do? Throw me out?"  
  
"How did you even get in? I didn't invite you!"  
  
At the door he turned. "I know that, Eugene. But I  
  
dare say you were sound asleep last night when I  
  
knocked. Your pet god-child is a lighter sleeper and  
  
was quite happy to let a motorist in for coffee until  
  
a truck could come tow his broken down car ..."  
  
Then, pausing for one more moment to savor the shock  
  
on Eugene's face, he passed through the door with a  
  
smirk, shutting it smartly behind ...  
  
~ TO BE CONTINUED 


	2. Chapter 2

He tried to imagine himself explaining it:  
  
"Jerome, there's a vampire in the basement. He's an  
  
old friend of mine - an old boyfriend to be exact.  
  
Don't blame me, I didn't invite him, but what could I  
  
do? Anyway, you asked him in yourself - yes, you did,  
  
it's the man let in last night, the one with car  
  
trouble. That's how it works: a vampire can't enter a  
  
dwelling without an invitation, but then they come and  
  
go as they bloody well please. And I've agreed to let  
  
him and a few friends use the place for sanctuary, but  
  
don't worry, they're keeping away until you're on your  
  
way to Titan. Just make sure you move as soon as you  
  
get back and there shouldn't be any problems. Sorry, I  
  
know it's a pain in the arse, but there's something I  
  
haven't told you yet: I'm a vampire, too. So you can  
  
see that I'm kind of honor bound to provide them with  
  
a safe place to nest in by day after a hard night's  
  
murdering and blood-drinking."  
  
He packed up the day's samples and put the equipment  
  
in order for the next day. No, he couldn't tell Jerome  
  
any of this. Even assuming he believed it, there  
  
wasn't anything he could do. Best if Eugene just  
  
things take their course and try to make the most of  
  
their remaining ten days together.  
  
How much simpler it would have been if his feelings  
  
for Jerome had remained as objective as he had assumed  
  
they would. After all, Jerome Eugene Morrow was a  
  
genetically designed Homo Superior, and Vincent Anton  
  
Freeman a common faith-birth. Bred from birth to never  
  
doubt his own perfection, Jerome had known the path  
  
his life would take as certainly as if it had been  
  
written in the stars. Written in his *genes*, the  
  
building blocks of life itself. How could he fail? But  
  
fail he had. Standing in second place on the Olympic  
  
tier, he had been humiliatingly conscious of the  
  
champion on first casting a shadow over him. He had  
  
stared ahead as "Advance Australia Fair" was played  
  
instead of "God Save The Queen", thinking up all sorts  
  
of reasons why this race should be the first one he  
  
had ever lost, reasons that denied the simple yet  
  
evident fact that *someone had been better than him*.  
  
It was intolerable. How dare anyone stand one step  
  
above him! His indignation was beyond all bounds. He  
  
had eventually swallowed the truth that he wasn't  
  
perfect, and that others might be closer to the ideal  
  
than he, but it was a bitter pill and it didn't teach  
  
him humility. More painful was his family's reaction;  
  
having always been as assured of Jerome's potential as  
  
Jerome himself could be, they became bewildered and  
  
hurt, as if by failing he had insulted them with  
  
monstrous ingratitude. It would have been better if  
  
they had reacted with vocal anger, but instead there  
  
was a kind of pained withdrawal, a withholding of  
  
affection, not deliberate, but clearly showing that  
  
they felt Jerome's failure as their own, as if Jerome  
  
himself had no more emotional investment in his  
  
accomplishments that the stallion has in the race he  
  
competes in.  
  
If Jerome had been taught to think of others; if his  
  
parents had raised him to value himself as an  
  
individual rather than an ubermensch; if their love  
  
had been unconditional, rather than the selfish kind  
  
of love that relies on what its object can provide for  
  
its giver, then Jerome might have been able to deal  
  
with his letdown rationally, even to be proud of his  
  
Olympic silver. But for his whole life, his ego had  
  
been pampered and his self-esteem starved, and the  
  
only result was an exagerrated sense of entitlement.  
  
He had been a sitting duck for someone like Damien.  
  
The vampire had first approached him a week after the  
  
games, promising amends for all his previous  
  
disappointments and immortality to boot. Jerome had  
  
agreed in the spirit of revenge, thinking not at all  
  
of long-term consequences or who he might be hurting.  
  
Damien had embraced him within a month of his first  
  
approach, and Jerome was soon settled in as the latest  
  
member of the brood.  
  
What followed was crushing disillusionment. Damien had  
  
promised unspeakable highs and eternal life free from  
  
responsibility. What he gave was really no better than  
  
what a junkie experienced: food, sex and sleep were  
  
just as necessary as ever. Yes, tasting the blood was  
  
everything Damien had promised, and it had been sweet  
  
to visit the one who had defeated him at the games and  
  
drain him dry in his bed; but in between there was the  
  
constant craving, worse than anything a mortal would  
  
feel for the most addictive drug. And the common  
  
mortal necessities had lost all their comfort,  
  
becoming bland and monotonous labors. Even sex with  
  
Damien quickly palled. The only times he found comfort  
  
with his lover had been on those rare times when he  
  
had consented to share blood. Otherwise, existence had  
  
become a hollow mockery, making him realize the true  
  
meaning of the prase "living dead". Then there were  
  
all these ridiculous restrictions: garlic and  
  
crucifixes were just as repellant as reputation had it  
  
(although the latter wasn't such a big deal in an age  
  
when man had replaced God with himself, and the former  
  
was more of a phobia or allergy rather than a positive  
  
deterrent), he could only enjoy one hour of sunlight a  
  
day (if enjoy was the right word - even between noon  
  
and one, the "safe" time for a vampire, the light  
  
would glare unpleasantly so that it was a relief to  
  
return to cool shadow), and one only had to place  
  
roses across the exits to a vampire's dwelling to  
  
prevent them leaving. And while he might be able to  
  
control the minds of wolves, rats, bats, crows and  
  
moths, this really didn't do any more than provide him  
  
with unusual pets.  
  
But the worst thing was the guilt. Slaying the  
  
champion had had no immediate bad consequences for  
  
him, since it was only revenge. Then there had  
  
followed a succession of victims that Eugene was  
  
unable to pity, either because of real or perceived  
  
worthlessness: thieves, whores, murderers, drug  
  
addicts, rapists, child molesters, cripples. But one  
  
night, the victim had only been a child. Eugene had  
  
gone out with Damien and Tania on and they spotted a  
  
little boy on his own, obviously an Invalid, separated  
  
accidentally from his parents and frightened to be out  
  
so late alone. Tania, who had been eighteen when she  
  
was embraced and looked no older than fourteen, found  
  
it easy to befriend the child and reassure him. She  
  
told him they would give him somewhere to sleep for  
  
the night and find his parents for him in the morning.  
  
The boy, who told them his name was Sean and he would  
  
be eleven in two weeks, accompanied them in perfect  
  
faith. As soon as the door was shut behind him, the  
  
brood fell on him. If they had killed him instantly it  
  
still would have been horrible, but vampires have an  
  
aversion to dead blood. When it had been Jerome's turn  
  
the child had been too weak to move, but still  
  
conscious, wide eyes scared and hurting, making a plea  
  
he was unable to give voice to as Jerome forced  
  
himself to sink his fangs into the frail little neck  
  
to drink. He drank it quickly, leaving none for the  
  
rest, wanting only to put the poor child out of his  
  
misery. Fortunately, the brood had mistaken this for a  
  
novice's eagerness and cheered him before setting out  
  
to find more prey for the rest.  
  
But Damien had been watching him with greater  
  
perception, and when the others left he remained  
  
behind to try and comfort him. Patiently, he explained  
  
that this was all just a vampire's lot; the blood-lust  
  
was unconquerable until sated. Hadn't he felt, despite  
  
his conscience, intense rapture when he drank from the  
  
child? And couldn't he still feel himself glowing  
  
inside, and hadn't the thirst receded? In time he  
  
would learn to treasure the hit and his guilt would  
  
disappear. He didn't even have to hunt with the rest  
  
of the brood; most of them had had their own trouble  
  
adjusting, and would understand if Jerome preferred to  
  
hunt with only Damien for company, or even stalk prey  
  
by himself, selecting victims who wouldn't be missed  
  
and who had little quality of life to lose in the  
  
first place.  
  
But as Jerome listened, all he could think of was the  
  
eleventh birthday (in just two weeks!) that Sean  
  
wouldn't be celebrating. His clothes had been obvious  
  
hand-me-downs, but clean and well cared for. His  
  
parents must have loved him. Were there already  
  
presents hiding in their closet, waiting for Sean's  
  
special day? Had they planned a surprise party and  
  
invited all his friends? Had they bought him a scooter  
  
or a chemistry set? Or something even more expensive,  
  
something that had required a whole year of careful  
  
saving and scraping, all to satisfy their darling's  
  
darling wish?  
  
Still, Jerome was a vampire, and such sentiment was  
  
inappropriate. With a tremendous effort, he struggled  
  
to convince Damien that his remorse was just a  
  
knee-jerk reaction, nothing more than could be  
  
expected from anyone who had only just commenced an  
  
eternal life as a serial killer. He succeeded so well  
  
that Damien became more at ease, assuring Jerome that  
  
such pangs would be worn down eventually; he only had  
  
to give himself time. But what Jerome hadn't told him  
  
when the rest of the brood returned around dawn, their  
  
color unnaturally heightened from fresh blood, eyes at  
  
once dazed with blood-drunkenness and bright with  
  
predators' joy, laughing about the tactics this or  
  
that victim had tried to save himself, was that he  
  
couldn't work out which would be worse: if the pangs  
  
of guilt remained, or if they faded until he took as  
  
much joy in the kill as the worst of them.  
  
At the stroke of noon he ventured out alone. Finding a  
  
library close by, he retreated to a corner with the  
  
last few weeks' papers. There was no mention of the  
  
child yet, and the other's had been almost totally  
  
ignored, but there was plenty on the Australian that  
  
Jerome had killed in his bed. Comments from his  
  
grief-stricken family, a condensed biography (a  
  
technical Invalid, but with naturally superior genetic  
  
structure, a life-long love of swimming, his joy at  
  
the chance to compete internationally, his shock at  
  
winning gold and his hopes that it would lead to  
  
friendlier relations between god-children and the  
  
genetically designed) - it all served to increase  
  
Jerome's remorse; not only that, but he finally began  
  
to see how completely his own life had been governed  
  
by impulses of the most selfish and petty kind.  
  
That night, he had told Damien he preferred to hunt  
  
alone. And he *had* killed - he was still a young  
  
vampire after all, and the thirst was relentless. But  
  
then he had hurried to the place where he and Damien  
  
had buried Sean. He carried the wasted body to a place  
  
where it was sure to be found before the brood could  
  
discover its absence. Then he had drunk as much  
  
alcohol as he needed to give himself some dutch  
  
courage (although this drunkenness was so trivial  
  
compare to a blood high as to be negligible) and fled  
  
to a distant part of the city, where he stepped in  
  
front of the first speeding car he saw. The result was  
  
no more than he had hoped for; the most violent  
  
accident can't kill a vampire, but it can still  
  
cripple him. And there was always the hope that the  
  
brood would be so enraged by his defection that they  
  
would kill him as a traitor and a threat.  
  
But nothing of the kind had happened. True, they  
  
tracked him down immediately, but when they came to  
  
see him their manner had showed nothing but kindness.  
  
It was soon apparent that, instead of anger and  
  
suspicion, they felt nothing but the most sincere  
  
compassion. These monsters, who Jerome had seen  
  
viciously taunt a dying child because his terror gave  
  
a greater poignancy to his flavor, who joked about  
  
some of the ridiculous stunts that a mortal would pull  
  
when his life was in danger, who saw anything with a  
  
finite lifespan as immeasurably beneath them except as  
  
the source of their only high, consistently treated  
  
others of their own kind with affection and respect.  
  
In this, Jerome realized that they were above even  
  
himself. They had gone out of their way to bring him  
  
fresh victims - which his will was still too weak to  
  
refuse - so that he could drink at night, even though  
  
they risked their own safety to do it. They promised  
  
to care for him when he was released, they even spoke  
  
hopefully of Ulysses - the wandering King of the  
  
vampires who had embraced the first brood, and whose  
  
blood was able to heal the hurts of mortal and  
  
immortal alike. Only Damien spoke to him with any  
  
reproach, and that was only out of the grief that  
  
Jerome's suffering caused him. Their love for him was  
  
clearly unselfish, which made his situation all the  
  
more unbearable; unable to hate them, he could only  
  
hate himself more. Finally, desperate to escape, he  
  
had fled on a midnight flight to America and bought  
  
the house that he now shared with the new Jerome.  
  
  
  
- TBC 


End file.
